Simulated Bird Strike Number Three

What follows is the chicken story referenced in They Say This Is Great Writing. Now, the chicken story is not an example of great writing. But a couple of people expressed interest, and it does have some good laughs, so here it is. Page breaks are placed strategically throughout, but WordPress seems to be hiding them way down at the bottom.

“That’s enough!”

The whirlwind ignored the Leghorn.

“That’s enough, I say!”

The whirlwind still ignored the Leghorn.

“Oh for the love of all that is sacred and righteous in this world, shut the holy hell up!”

The whirlwind died, and the chickens comprising it froze in various manifestations of panic. Their eyes were on the Leghorn. The air was thick with feathers.

“Now stop charging around like the world’s about to end. Everyone calm down!”

“But the world is ‘bout to end,” blubbered the Skyline White. “We all gonna die!”

The chickens glanced at each other. The Skyline White had a point, they thought, and panic seemed entirely appropriate. The whirlwind erupted anew.

The Leghorn turned, shaking his head in frustration, and walked over to the window. He misjudged the distance and bumped his forehead on it yet again, then leaned on the glass as if that was what he’d meant to do all along. He stared into the hangar beyond. No sign of the Evil Farmers, but the cannon sat ready, its barrel aimed directly at the canopy of an F-16.

All the canon lacked was a chicken.

The Leghorn turned back to the room. The whine of the whirlwind rose in pitch as each chicken tried to out-panic the others.

Alone in a corner of the room stood the Gamecock, the fighter, born and bred for strength and speed and courage…and smoking, especially Lucky Strikes. The cowardice of the others turned the Gamecock’s stomach. He approached the whirlwind, took a deep breath, and yelled with every bit of his superior gamecock strength, “Knock it off ya pansies! Yer all a bunch a friggin loser pansies, all a’yas!”

This got their attention, partly because the Gamecock bonked their heads together while he said it. They knocked it off, and the whirlwind died with a sputtering, propeller-running-out-of-gas type sound. The air was now mostly feathers.

“All right,” said the Leghorn. “Let’s start over. But calmly this time. Here are the facts – ”

“You want facts, Reghorn,” cut in the Brahma, an Asian bird. “Fact are, none of us gonna see sunrise, Reghorn. Fact are, before night over, we gonna be stuff in cannon. Cannon gonna shoot us into windshield.  Windshield gonna ‘resist’ us. ‘Us’ will be dead chicken, splatter on windshield. There your facts, okay Reghorn?”

“Anybody understand what the f*** he just said?” asked the Rock Cornish.

“He said we all gonna die!” moaned the Skyline.

“Oh calm down, Whitey!” said the Leghorn.

“I cain’t, ’cause we all gonna–”

The Gamecock, a Lucky hanging from his beak, grabbed the Skyline White by the neck and slapped him back and forth across his face. “Snap out of it, boid, and shut it up yer friggin mouth!”

“That is ENOUGH!” said the Leghorn. “There’s no sense in us fighting each other.”

The Gamecock gave the Leghorn a sidelong look, then grunted, spewing smoke. He dropped the Skyline White, who fell to the floor like a wet sock, and went back to his corner. “I swear,” he mumbled, blowing a cloud, “that Yahoo’s makin’ me nutso over here.”

“We’re all just a little tense,” said the Leghorn. “What we need to do is work out a way to bust out of here.”

“Hot damn – speak of the devil!” cried the Rock Cornish, for no obvious reason.  He leapt to his feet, a look of joy on his face, and charged straight at the glass shouting, “I see it, follow me!”

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